The Trade
by True Miang
Summary: For Matt Engarde and Juan Corrida, ruining each other's lives just comes with the territory. Spoilers for PW2 case 4.


**The Trade**

"All hail the conquering hero," the voice behind him drawled as Juan Corrida gently pushed the door closed. The latch snapped into place, and he turned.

Matt Engarde lay sprawled over his plush purple couch. He stared up at Corrida, eyes glassy and the faintest hint of a smirk gracing his boyish features. Magazines and newspapers lay strewn about, unnoticed by Engarde as he swirled the snifter of brandy in his hand. _Must have started early,_ Juan mused. _Or never stopped..._

"So what brings you by this humble abode?" Engarde volleyed, voice strong despite the clear toll of drink and sleeplessness on his appearance. "Come to gloat?"

Corrida folded his arms, flicking the ever-present wheat stalk with an agile tongue. A fleeting sensation of unease buzzed in the back of his mind and was gone. "No, Matt," he answered carefully, "that's more your game than mine." He inspected the room, remarkably clean save the media clutter by the couch. "I came to make sure you were okay -- you didn't look so hot when you left last night."

Engarde laughed, a short, derisive bark. "Of course! Chivalrous _and_ condescending, the Corrida special!" he spat. "You so obviously know where the door is, so why don't you use it again?" Engarde jerked his head in the appropriate direction to emphasize his point, but he made no other effort to move.

Corrida rolled his eyes and took an exaggerated step forward -- away from the door. "Fuck off, Matt," he replied amiably. "You still look like hell. At least let me get you lunch or something..." He trailed off as Engarde finally sat up, shaking his head slightly against the momentary disorientation before fixing Corrida with a piercing stare.

"Maybe you didn't hear me the first time," Engarde bit out. "_Leave._"

Corrida moved to sit on the edge of the wooden coffee table, shoe-heel narrowly missing Engarde's face splashed across the front page of a trade magazine from the previous year. He returned Engarde's stare, unfazed. "What's your deal, man? Why are you so pissed that I won one fuckin' award? You've got plenty of your own, as you're always so happy to point out to me -- why's it such a huge problem that I got this one and you didn't?"

Engarde's fingers tightened around the snifter, and he leaned forward into Corrida's personal space to deposit it shakily on the table before it shattered. "Because you _are_ a loser, _Juan,_" he snarled. "It suits you."

The uneasy feeling prickled Corrida's senses again, but he fought it down and breathed in deeply, exhaling to the side. The corners of his mouth twitched up in thought, and before he could stop himself, he commented, "Funny, that's not what the Kids' Choice Awards voters seemed to think..."

Engarde moved faster than Corrida would have expected, open palms slamming down on either side of Juan's thighs as he pitched forward, bared teeth mere inches from Corrida's nose. A loud, hollow 'thunk' immediately after suggested that Matt had slammed his knee into the table as well, but he gave no indication of noticing as he retorted, breath gusting hot against Corrida's face. "Fuck your award and fuck you," Engarde growled. "You didn't deserve to win and you know it, I know it, _Celeste_ knows it -- "

"You leave her out of this!" Corrida cried, then realized his mistake a moment too late as Engarde's eyes lit in recognition. He swore silently to himself -- he hadn't meant for that to come out quite so loud, or for his fingers to grip the firm edge of the table so hard that his knuckles visibly whitened, but Engarde saw all the same.

"Oh?" Matt demanded imperiously, staring down at Juan. "Trouble in paradise, my friend? Surely Celeste is _thrilled_ with the success of her spandex-wearing hero..." Corrida wasn't even looking at him anymore, eyes downcast and nearly trembling with barely-suppressed rage. Matt's smirk turned cruel. "Or does she try and hide how much she misses getting fucked by a real man? Sweet girl..."

"Shut up," Juan ground out in quiet warning. Engarde pressed his advantage, crouching several inches lower still so that his body was aligned with Corrida's as he leaned back, the latter bracing his weight on his elbows and forearms.

"Make me," Engarde whispered. He smiled, and his voice was rich with victory as he continued, "I bet you could, too...but you can't make _her_ shut up, can you, Juan? When she makes that little whimper just before she comes -- _aah!_ -- " Matt's eyes fluttered closed, and he undulated his hips against Juan in a parody of lovemaking.

Juan's resolve broke then, and even from his disadvantaged position he was able to shift enough weight to his left arm to deliver a sound jab to Matt's eye socket with his right. Engarde reeled back, his hand instinctively coming up to protect his bruised eye, and Corrida used the opportunity to push him back down to the couch and stagger left, around the table and away from the grinning madman. He clenched his fist tight against him, and stared accusatorily at Engarde.

"How -- how could you -- " Corrida started, but his lips snapped shut abruptly, as though reconsidering the words they were on the precipice of forming. "You and Celeste..."

"She's thinking of me every time you fuck her," Engarde confirmed. "She's remembering." He brought his hand down slowly and blinked against the harsh midday light pouring in through the front windows. Almost as an afterthought, he asked nonchalantly, "Hey, you wanna know the best way to get her off?"

Corrida glared venomously at Engarde before turning and stomping toward the door, which he threw open forcefully. He paused in the entranceway as if to stay and argue, but he only shook his head and threw a muted "Go to hell, Matt," over his sagging shoulder as he left.

The door latched behind him once again and Engarde fell back to the couch, swiping the glass of brandy from the table on his way down. He stretched once, raising the glass in a luxurious mock-toast to himself, and drank deeply.

The smile never left his lips, but it never quite reached his eyes, either.

_fin_

* * *

**Notes:** Written as part of the 2007 Gyakuten Saiban Gift Exchange on LJ. The request was "Matt/Juan: Both bitter and fighting. Juan managed to upstage Matt in a previous year awards." 


End file.
